


Flightless Birds

by nostalgia



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Magic Realism, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flightless Birds

She's boiling the kettle when it happens. 

“Watson, you have wings!”

She freezes, muscles tensing as the fight-or-flight reaction kicks in. “What?” she says, trying to control her voice. 

“Wings. On your back.” She feels a hand between her shoulder-blades, fingers tugging at the back of her top. “You never told me you had a tattoo. Why wings?”

She turns and he pulls his hands away to his sides. She stares at him, trying to work out what he's thinking. His expression is honest and open. He really does just want to know about her tattoo.

She shrugs, guts still twisting. “I was drunk, I don't remember what I was thinking.”

“ A single tattoo almost always means something,” he insists. 

“What do yours mean?” she asks. He shuts up, expression becoming blank, and she knows she won't be facing any more questions about it.

The kettle switches itself off. 

 

She doesn't have a tattoo. She's never had a tattoo. No one has ever _seen_ a tattoo.

She stands naked in the bathroom and lets her wings come. She twists to see them in the mirror, checks that they meet her flesh where Sherlock touched her back. They are soft and white and nobody has seen them since her mother taught her how to control their appearances. 

But Sherlock saw wings, even if they weren't the ones she really has. She wants to know why.

 

It's like a censor in the brain. People don't have wings, so the evidence of the eyes can safely be ignored. She didn't specialise in it, but she knows enough about the human mind to have a few theories. Strong magnetic fields could override the censor, she is fairly sure. Certain mental illnesses might let the sufferer see a flicker of white. And, of course, there are drugs.

 

“Have you ever had an MRI?”

He looks up from the case notes he's reading over. “Isn't that a bit personal?”

She pulls a chair over to sit next to him. “There could be permanent damage to your brain from what you took when... before we met.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn't think so. I'd have noticed by now.”

“I've seen it happen before. I'd like to make sure you're okay.”

He scowls at her and goes back to reading. 

 

She asked once what he'd taken and he said “Oh, everything.” He could afford everything, and had reason to try for that perfect taste of oblivion. 'Everything' doesn't really help, so she stays up a few nights with coffee and Google, applying what she knows of neuroscience and pharmacology. 

She rules out ecstasy and cocaine, puts heroin on the 'maybe' list. She wonders about a few of the atypical anti-psychotics. 

It's surprisingly – worryingly – easy to get hold of the supplies she needs.

 

She puts a sedative in his coffee, waits for him to fall asleep before injecting her special cocktail into his arm. She gives it ten minutes and then wakes him with a glass of cold water to the face.

He blinks in the light, pupils failing to contract as they should. He sways to one side and she has to catch him before he falls of the chair. 

“Easy,” she says, “easy.” She lifts his chin, moves back slightly so he can see her properly. “What do you see?”

His eyes widen. “Watson... you have wings...” He pushes against the arms of the chair. “What...” 

She reaches for him as he loses his balance, but his weight is too much for her and he falls to his knees. 

“Poisoned...” he says.

“It's okay,” she says, stroking his hair. “You're safe.” She's crying now, but she's not sure why.

“You're an angel,” he says, staring up at her. “An angel.”

“I just wanted someone to see,” she says, desperate to justify what she's done.

“I'm dying.”

“You're not dying, you're just... I'm sorry.”

She lets him collapse on the floor, dials 911 and sits down to wait.


End file.
